


Where I Want To Go

by mockingjayne



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:01:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21747970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockingjayne/pseuds/mockingjayne
Summary: Wyatt and Lucy deal with the aftermath of the season two finale, and where they find themselves going from there.
Relationships: Wyatt Logan & Lucy Preston, Wyatt Logan/Lucy Preston
Kudos: 23





	Where I Want To Go

Her toes wiggle in her socks, even the tiniest movement reminding her that she was sore, incredibly so. The wince sends her injured face screaming in even more pain. Her nose scrunching up, crinkling the cut on her cheekbone, her hand moving towards the sting, as if trying to still herself.

She sees the cloth of ice before anything else, a friendly hand extending a peace offering, promising to sooth her aching face.

Lucy wants to smile up at him, a silent thanks of sorts, but even a smirk feels like torture.

“Here,” Wyatt offers, lightly stepping over her, before lowering himself into a sitting position beside her, the temperature seemingly raising, despite the cold concrete on her back, as he sits closely next to her.

She moves the ice to her face, instinctively jerking away as the freezing cold reaches her eye. Laying her head back against the wall, she tilts her face towards him, but he avoids her gaze.

It’s only when she nudges him with her shoulder that he looks at her, his blue eyes swimming with guilt, sweeping across her injuries. She knows, logically, they’re not his fault. That none of this is his fault. But she also knows him better than that, the clench of his jaw, telling her that he’s fighting back what he really wants to say. He blames himself.

Averting his eyes again, he stares down at his feet, and she does the same, lowering the ice to her lap, that awkward tension, the one that they can’t seem to shake surrounds them. Unspoken words lingering between them, the ones threatening to spill from either of their mouths at any second.

“I almost lost you,” he chokes out.

She waits for something else, a signal for her to speak, but she’s not sure what to say at this point. He’s not wrong, as she laid sprawled on the ground, there was definitely a moment where she thought that it all would end right there.

But here she was, very much alive, and in pain, ready to stitch herself back together, and begin healing. With him.

Her fingernail moves across the pattern of the cloth, distracting herself from the heavy tension threatening to overtake them.

She can hear the words he wasn’t saying, the ones claiming that it wasn’t just today that he felt like he’d lost her. He had made a choice, one that she had encouraged, that she understood. And it had backfired.

His brow furrows in contemplation. Not unlike a moment that seems so far away now, the two of them seated on opposite beds, tears threatening to drown her as she realized she’d lost everything.

He’d promised her that day that she hadn’t lost him, but a phone call not too long after had informed her otherwise. She’d been shattered, forced to pick up the pieces by herself with a bottle in one hand, and the constant reminder of its breaker an arms length away.

But she didn’t blame him. She couldn’t. She was angry, sure. Devastated, absolutely. But to blame him would’ve been to hate who he was, his loyalty, his ability to do the right thing, a persistence to right the wrongs, to get what he had been fighting for. To deny him as such, to hate him for this, it would’ve been hypocritical, it would’ve been to hate his very being. And for as much as she hurt, she knew she couldn’t for one second regret what had happened between them.

Her hand stills, shaking as she lifts it to settle on his warm one, heating what was just wrapped around ice.

“You didn’t lose me,” she whispers, a quirk to her lips, only slightly, not wanting to pull at the small adhesive keeping her cheek in one piece.

His eyes seem to focus on her small hand atop his, and when he looks back at her, she swears the tears building make his eyes look impossibly blue with hope. The double meaning not lost on him, as she squeezes his hand.

The same smirk as her own mirrored back to her.

“Lucy,” he starts, angling his body towards her, bringing his knees up so their hands fall further into his lap.

She doesn’t respond, so much as hum back at him, encouraging him to continue, lowering her head, unable to veil her face with her hair pulled back.

“It’s not…you are…,” he stumbles out, and her face tilts with confusion, prepared to take her hand back, but he grabs onto her fingers, lacing them with his own.

“Wyatt,” she warns, not sure if she can possibly take another hit today.

“You and me, we’re not fate,” he says, an imperceptible laugh at the end of his sentence.

Her lips part, inhaling a deep breath, rattling her frame, a sharp intake of pain following. He never was one to believe in fate, convinced that it was our choices that made up history, shaped our future. The outtake refreshing, in the stream of inevitability that she waned in. But as she sat there, peeking up at his face through her dark lashes, she couldn’t help but feel, still, that they were something meant to be.

“You’re a choice. We’re a choice,” he claims, and she finds herself nodding, despite their differing of opinions. “And before…the possibilities…the what ifs…”

“I wasn’t your choice,” she thinks, and it’s only when he balks that she realizes she said that out loud.

“Because I was still living in the past,” he says, frustration painting his expression, his free hand coming to his neck, as if working out the muscles he needed to finish his thoughts. “If she hadn’t come back, that what if would have always been hanging over us.”

“And now?” She asks, only to find his once free hand tangling in her hair, his thumb gently cradling her jaw, hovering above the cuts littering her face, soft reminders of what was almost lost.

His face moves closer, their fingers still laced, her hand coming to rest on his shoulder, the pull on her shoulder causing a grimace to ghost across her face.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart” He says, concern written all over him, refusing to hurt her further.

She nods, scooting forward, putting her weight on him, trusting he wouldn’t let her fall.

“That’s my line,” she says with a smirk.

“I love you,” he breathes an inch away from her, and her eyes close, squeezing tightly, soaking in the words. He was right this wasn’t something inevitable, she could choose not to. She could choose to walk away. But the thought of doing so seemed more painful than risking her heart again.

Her eyes fluttered open to find the same blue eyes that had protected her since day one. The steady hand of a man who had stood by her side, whose feelings for her couldn’t be undone even when presented with nothing short of a miracle. The one who strapped her in safely, and walked with her through time, supporting her search for her own sister, gripped her hand, and looked at her as more than just a source of information or a means to an end. The one who was willing to risk his own life to make sure she wasn’t erased from existence.

The grip she has on his shoulder tightens. Her face moving ever so close to his own, his breath hitting her, mixing with her own, steadily syncopating, unable to separate.

“I don’t want to waste anymore time,” she says, her moving words causing her lips to brush against his, but he doesn’t make a move, letting it be her choice. Their fate resting in her hands.

Lucy lets go of his hand, and she can feel his gasp, as he tries to extricate himself from her, but she wraps her arms around his neck, not even feeling the ache of her muscles as they stretch, her smile tearing at her cut lip, her cheek screaming at her to stop. But she can’t.

Her lips are on his before he can comprehend what’s happening, their kiss soft and wanting, as she pulls him impossibly close. The feel of him still something still new, yet familiar, a bit like coming home, settled and steady.

It’s only reluctantly do they part, her forehead coming to rest against his lips.

“Don’t think I’m letting you off the hook just yet,” she says with a shortness of breath caught between them. A laugh rumbles out against her, rattling her body.

“I’d expect nothing less…ma’am,” he responds. Their eyes eventually meeting, attempting to explain the infinite number of possibilities, as they settle into a realization of just how rare and fateful it is that they exist in this moment.

“I love you too.”


End file.
